I rarely write about the specifics of what is going on in my life...keeping this blog as anonymous as possible. In fact, sometimes it frightens me how many different levels my mind functions on at any given time. Few people know about this blog, and they think of me as an accomplished person and they don't know about most of my inner turmoil.
But I am enraged, at several people. First and foremost, ironically, is Dr. Gottlieb. We had a session on Thursday morning. Over the years, the subject of whether or not he should become my therapist has arisen. The answer is generally no, in part because I tend to sexualize my relationships with men (safely, I've never cheated on my husband), in part because our relationship is slightly messed up in the transference-countertransference department.
For years I've known we're attracted to each other, or maybe it's simply my fantasy. From very early on, I've called him by his first name. (I got over my dislike of shorter men, although I still have a difficult time picturing him naked.) After the first ten months I'd been seeing him, he said we had to talk. It turned out that I had been seeing him for an hour after every therapy session, and he had actually been doing therapy with me without meaning to. "This has never happened to me before," he said, and I remember the bewildered look on his face.
At that time he had a postcard from one of my shows, the show he made possible, on his bulletin board. After that, it was taken down.
After that, I only saw him for twenty minutes at a time, until I became his private patient. My therapist left the bipolar clinic, and then an audit of the study I was in revealed I had been there three years, not six months.
This year, I have not had a therapist since March, so the subject came up again. He said he no longer practiced psychotherapy, and it was something you had to do on an ongoing basis. "Use it or lose it" was his exact phrase. He did try to find someone for me, but she is not taking new patients, and meanwhile he's seeing me on a weekly basis.
This past week, after my session, someone else went in after me and I chatted to the woman who usually follows me. I often have my dog with me, and I didn't on Thursday. When I mentioned I was looking for a therapist, she was baffled, and said, "Isn't Dr. Gottlieb your therapist?"
"No, he's my psychiatrist. I've always seen a therapist separately."
She looked at me. "I didn't know he was a psychiatrist. I just thought he was a therapist. He's been my therapist for years."
I forced a smile and left. Today, I went to his webpage, and there is it was:
Specialties: Psychopharmacology, psychotherapy
BASTARD! LYING STINKING MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD! WHY? WHY?
Whenever we've talked about our dynamic, I do all of the talking, as it were. He gives me that shut look and either says nothing or "You know I can't answer that." Dr. Gottlieb has let me know he does not like my husband and/or disapproves of my marriage, making occasional snide cracks about it. A few years ago, when I stopped going to the bipolar clinic and became Dr. Gottlieb's private patient, my husband asked me, "What is it between you two?"
"I don't know," I answered honestly.
Then, about a year ago, Dr. Gottlieb said he had to draw boundaries in the sand.
"But you don't tell me what the boundaries are until I've walked ten feet past them!" I cried. He's recently adopted a more "professional" demeanor toward me, which I've let him know I dislike, but more in a sulking, joking way than a serious way. I don't like it, in all truth, but I also think it's the right thing...
BUT!
Why lie to me? Why not say, "the dynamic is wrong between us for me to be your therapist." At least that would be HONEST. MOTHERFUCKER! I am so angry I can hardly stand it, and hurt. Deeply hurt. I can't even say how hurt. As I write this my insides shake. I want to hurt him the way he's hurt me, and I can't. Shithead. Crappy asshole shithead.
This coming Tuesday (my usual day) ought to be interesting. More about other people I'm pissed off later, but this is the Big Kahuna.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
Penis Frenzy - Sometime in 2001
I felt the blood roaring up my chest, neck and face even as the words left my mouth:
“Do you want a blowjob?”
Oh, God, my face was hotter than a cast iron pan on a gas flame. There was a silence that lasted perhaps a few seconds but seemed like the Thousand Years War.
My psychopharmacologist didn’t seem to have heard me correctly. “What?”
“Do you—do you want me to give you a blowjob?”
The change in his round face, usually so open, reminded me of shop gates slamming down at night. There was suddenly no expression. Why did I say that, I thought, cursing myself. Why was I such a fucking moron? Why did I listen to that fucking therapist? After I killed myself, I was going to kill her.
The two of us sat almost knee to knee in his tiny office. Behind his head was the spectacular view of the Hudson River in autumn, but the office itself was a mass of papers, boxes, and drug samples. Every object except the fax machine and telephone had a drug name on it: Celexa, Welbutrin, Zoloft, Effexor. We were in the middle of a huge mental hospital, but this section, the bipolar clinic, was always incredibly quiet and virtually deserted.
“Why do you want to give me a blowjob?” His voice came out slightly strangled.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it…” Oh, God, I was starting to cry, I hated myself when I cried, even more than I hated myself the rest of the time. “You saved my life, Dr. Gottlieb. You took me out of that HMO clinic and away from that terrible psychiatrist and now I’m getting free care and mostly free drugs, and it’s all because of you! And there’s no way I can repay you. I don’t have any money, you know that. So I thought—you know—that I could give you a blowjob. Pay you back that way.” I paused, and added, “A friend of mine gave her therapist a blowjob in the elevator of his building and didn’t seem to think it was so strange.”
Sweat ran down my sides. The idea had made perfect sense when I told my therapist about it. I’d been thinking about giving Dr. Gottlieb a blowjob for several weeks.
And now here I was, a 40-year-old 275-pound bipolar recovering alcoholic with really bad skin, lousy personal grooming, and the occasional hallucination, offering this dapper little man a blowjob. It crossed my mind that I might not have brushed my teeth before I left the house.
He wasn’t really little, just shorter and smaller than me. But then, nearly everybody was. Months ago I’d been lumbering around the subways, fantasizing about pushing people in front of the trains, or jumping in front of one myself. And now, thanks to Dr. Gottlieb, Depakote had calmed my violent impulses—most of them, anyway—and I was actually taking showers in the morning again. What else could I give him but the gift of oral sex?
“Elisa, I am your doctor,” he intoned. “And you are my patient. There are boundaries in place in our relationship. We are not friends, even though it might feel that way to you at times. My relationship with you is purely professional. I like you, but I don’t want you acting out sexually, with me or anyone else.”
He was using a tone of voice I’d never heard before, soft, controlled, cold. Usually he beamed when I came in the office, cracking jokes throughout our weekly sessions. That was part of what was so unusual about my situation. Frustrated by the treatment I was getting at my former clinic, Dr. Gottlieb had enrolled me in a study for bipolar women. When I mentioned I was above the age limit, he replied, “It’s my clinic and I can do what I want.”
That day I cried with gratitude all the way home on the train. Every week I saw my therapist, and afterward I saw Dr. Gottlieb, and we went over the elaborate weekly charts I had to keep. He was still weaning me off the ten medications I had been on when I reeled into his care.
“Is there any other reason?”
“No, there isn’t.”
But I was lying. I had a terrible secret.
Although I adored him and considered him my savior, I wasn’t physically attracted to him, and I didn’t want to see him naked.
Dr. Gottlieb had a beard, and I had a suspicion that he had a great deal of body hair. And he was shorter than me. For some reason I’d always had a problem with men who are shorter than me. But I couldn’t say that. It would hurt his feelings. His penis, alone, emerging from his expensive wool trousers, now that I could manage.
He went on talking about ‘boundaries’, ‘doctor/patient protocol,’ and all the while I kept repeating aloud, “I can’t believe I said that to you.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “now that you’ve found yourself in a good situation, you’re trying to sabotage it by acting out with me.”
Ah. That made sense. I never let a good situation happen to me if I could help it. And what was better than this?
(Note: as of 2007, I am still seeing Dr. Gottlieb, which of course is not his real name. And I've never given him a blow job.)
“Do you want a blowjob?”
Oh, God, my face was hotter than a cast iron pan on a gas flame. There was a silence that lasted perhaps a few seconds but seemed like the Thousand Years War.
My psychopharmacologist didn’t seem to have heard me correctly. “What?”
“Do you—do you want me to give you a blowjob?”
The change in his round face, usually so open, reminded me of shop gates slamming down at night. There was suddenly no expression. Why did I say that, I thought, cursing myself. Why was I such a fucking moron? Why did I listen to that fucking therapist? After I killed myself, I was going to kill her.
The two of us sat almost knee to knee in his tiny office. Behind his head was the spectacular view of the Hudson River in autumn, but the office itself was a mass of papers, boxes, and drug samples. Every object except the fax machine and telephone had a drug name on it: Celexa, Welbutrin, Zoloft, Effexor. We were in the middle of a huge mental hospital, but this section, the bipolar clinic, was always incredibly quiet and virtually deserted.
“Why do you want to give me a blowjob?” His voice came out slightly strangled.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it…” Oh, God, I was starting to cry, I hated myself when I cried, even more than I hated myself the rest of the time. “You saved my life, Dr. Gottlieb. You took me out of that HMO clinic and away from that terrible psychiatrist and now I’m getting free care and mostly free drugs, and it’s all because of you! And there’s no way I can repay you. I don’t have any money, you know that. So I thought—you know—that I could give you a blowjob. Pay you back that way.” I paused, and added, “A friend of mine gave her therapist a blowjob in the elevator of his building and didn’t seem to think it was so strange.”
Sweat ran down my sides. The idea had made perfect sense when I told my therapist about it. I’d been thinking about giving Dr. Gottlieb a blowjob for several weeks.
And now here I was, a 40-year-old 275-pound bipolar recovering alcoholic with really bad skin, lousy personal grooming, and the occasional hallucination, offering this dapper little man a blowjob. It crossed my mind that I might not have brushed my teeth before I left the house.
He wasn’t really little, just shorter and smaller than me. But then, nearly everybody was. Months ago I’d been lumbering around the subways, fantasizing about pushing people in front of the trains, or jumping in front of one myself. And now, thanks to Dr. Gottlieb, Depakote had calmed my violent impulses—most of them, anyway—and I was actually taking showers in the morning again. What else could I give him but the gift of oral sex?
“Elisa, I am your doctor,” he intoned. “And you are my patient. There are boundaries in place in our relationship. We are not friends, even though it might feel that way to you at times. My relationship with you is purely professional. I like you, but I don’t want you acting out sexually, with me or anyone else.”
He was using a tone of voice I’d never heard before, soft, controlled, cold. Usually he beamed when I came in the office, cracking jokes throughout our weekly sessions. That was part of what was so unusual about my situation. Frustrated by the treatment I was getting at my former clinic, Dr. Gottlieb had enrolled me in a study for bipolar women. When I mentioned I was above the age limit, he replied, “It’s my clinic and I can do what I want.”
That day I cried with gratitude all the way home on the train. Every week I saw my therapist, and afterward I saw Dr. Gottlieb, and we went over the elaborate weekly charts I had to keep. He was still weaning me off the ten medications I had been on when I reeled into his care.
“Is there any other reason?”
“No, there isn’t.”
But I was lying. I had a terrible secret.
Although I adored him and considered him my savior, I wasn’t physically attracted to him, and I didn’t want to see him naked.
Dr. Gottlieb had a beard, and I had a suspicion that he had a great deal of body hair. And he was shorter than me. For some reason I’d always had a problem with men who are shorter than me. But I couldn’t say that. It would hurt his feelings. His penis, alone, emerging from his expensive wool trousers, now that I could manage.
He went on talking about ‘boundaries’, ‘doctor/patient protocol,’ and all the while I kept repeating aloud, “I can’t believe I said that to you.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “now that you’ve found yourself in a good situation, you’re trying to sabotage it by acting out with me.”
Ah. That made sense. I never let a good situation happen to me if I could help it. And what was better than this?
(Note: as of 2007, I am still seeing Dr. Gottlieb, which of course is not his real name. And I've never given him a blow job.)
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Adjusting to Being Home - Present, Tense
My husband is auditing a course at the school he graduated from. I can't remember what it is, but I know it's something to do with one of the things that's wrong with me (oh, yes, it's all about me, tee hee). He's going to start job hunting next month, after we go to a conference where he's giving a presentation--and I get to bring my dog!!
This was our negotiation--I agreed to go to SF if I could bring my dog to the convention. I've been to SF many, many times and wasn't exactly eager to go there again. So now I have to "muzzle train" my dog because there will be so many little kids there. Fortunately I'm not expected to socialize much, and we'll be near downtown.
I did not sleep AT ALL last night. I went to bed, all right, but lay there for more than two hours, then got up again. When I went back to bed at 5 AM, I proceeded to have a series of nightmares. (It's something my late father and I had/have in common--nightmares that we have to be woken up from, because we're screaming or waving our hands in the air or gasping. My mother once said she had been told never to wake up someone having a nightmare. I assured her that it was the best possible thing to do! What a relief to find yourself out of danger!)
Oddly enough, I feel more awake today than I have for the past couple of days, but it's probably just the dexadrine and coffee. Mother's little helper.
This was our negotiation--I agreed to go to SF if I could bring my dog to the convention. I've been to SF many, many times and wasn't exactly eager to go there again. So now I have to "muzzle train" my dog because there will be so many little kids there. Fortunately I'm not expected to socialize much, and we'll be near downtown.
I did not sleep AT ALL last night. I went to bed, all right, but lay there for more than two hours, then got up again. When I went back to bed at 5 AM, I proceeded to have a series of nightmares. (It's something my late father and I had/have in common--nightmares that we have to be woken up from, because we're screaming or waving our hands in the air or gasping. My mother once said she had been told never to wake up someone having a nightmare. I assured her that it was the best possible thing to do! What a relief to find yourself out of danger!)
Oddly enough, I feel more awake today than I have for the past couple of days, but it's probably just the dexadrine and coffee. Mother's little helper.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Sorry It's Been So Long...
I can't believe I haven't written anything here in so many weeks.
Not much has changed, except that I seem to finally have the goddamn supplementary insurance plan (a spanking extra $200/month in addition to the $15/month drug plan so that my Depakote only costs $54 for a 30-day bottle instead of $211). Nothing new on the therapist front.
However, we went to California on vacation for two weeks, which we both badly needed. I had to board my dog, but we went to San Francisco and the surrounding environs, where I saw Cordelia twice, and also saw Lucretia's new house.
(I can't help being angry when I see the Italian stone garden her husband put in front, and their brand-new kitchen, etc. It's hard feeling like you simply CANNOT forgive somebody, but I can't forgive Lucretia for not paying my father's debt to me when she has so much money.)
I needed so much to get away from everything. And both me and my husband needed to be alone together without me being crazy, which for the most part I managed. He oversaw my schedule so that I would not push myself too hard...one morning I started weeping from the pressure of socializing, and he was so sweet.
That's all for right now. It's 1 am here and I should go to bed. The best part of getting home was getting my dog back--he EXPLODED with joy when he saw me and won't let me out of his sight!
As I was writing this, he came trotting out of the bedroom to see where I was, so I know I have to go to bed! :) I love to hear the clicking of his little black toenails...one of the simple pleasures of life, dog love.
Not much has changed, except that I seem to finally have the goddamn supplementary insurance plan (a spanking extra $200/month in addition to the $15/month drug plan so that my Depakote only costs $54 for a 30-day bottle instead of $211). Nothing new on the therapist front.
However, we went to California on vacation for two weeks, which we both badly needed. I had to board my dog, but we went to San Francisco and the surrounding environs, where I saw Cordelia twice, and also saw Lucretia's new house.
(I can't help being angry when I see the Italian stone garden her husband put in front, and their brand-new kitchen, etc. It's hard feeling like you simply CANNOT forgive somebody, but I can't forgive Lucretia for not paying my father's debt to me when she has so much money.)
I needed so much to get away from everything. And both me and my husband needed to be alone together without me being crazy, which for the most part I managed. He oversaw my schedule so that I would not push myself too hard...one morning I started weeping from the pressure of socializing, and he was so sweet.
That's all for right now. It's 1 am here and I should go to bed. The best part of getting home was getting my dog back--he EXPLODED with joy when he saw me and won't let me out of his sight!
As I was writing this, he came trotting out of the bedroom to see where I was, so I know I have to go to bed! :) I love to hear the clicking of his little black toenails...one of the simple pleasures of life, dog love.
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